


Home for the Holiday

by illwick



Series: Unwind [35]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (fantasy), Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Imaginary Jude Law, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, The Holiday (because duh), Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: There's no place like Baker Street at Christmastime!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unwind [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/704085
Comments: 27
Kudos: 139





	Home for the Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Christmas drabble to get you in the spirit as we endure whatever number lockdown we're at now. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!
> 
> Quick note: This installment does reference a past plot point involving Sherlock having a celebrity crush on Jude Law and John finding that quite endearing and indulging him on that front, but it's not necessary to have read the whole series to get the gist of it.
> 
> There's also a brief mention of past internalized homophobia that was a plot point earlier in this series, but you just need to know it's been resolved and John is now _good, giving, and game_ :)

John gazes mournfully out the gilded glass double doors of the department store at the torrential downpour outside. He had barely started to make a dent in the holiday shopping despite the late date, but he had _sworn_ today would be the day he’d buckle down and get to it. After all, Sherlock’s parents had taken Rosie out to the family estate early in preparation for the annual Christmas Eve Gala (as was becoming custom), Sherlock had taken on a last-minute freelance laboratory gig and had been all but drowning in work until his conclusion of the project the night prior, and John had taken a few days off from the surgery to prepare for their holiday trip to the countryside. This would be their last weekend in the city before Christmas, so it was _imperative_ that he get the shopping done.

Staring out the doors at the dismal weather, he attempts to summon the will to venture on to his next destination. He’d had it all plotted out to perfection: A stop at Liberty (for his Mum’s standard variety tea sampler), then on to Anthropologie (a store he’d never heard of, but Molly had pinned a purse festooned with embroidered cats from there on her Pinterest board and commented on it no fewer than three times on Instagram, so John had decided to put an end to the madness and buy it for her), and then on to a _particular_ shop just off Savile Row to procure something a little more _personal_ for Sherlock. When he’d imagined his day out on the town, it had involved bustling crowds, glittering lights, and a copious dose of holiday cheer.

What he’d _not_ expected was the bleak, relentless rainfall, which was keeping even the most committed shoppers off the streets. When he’d soldiered out of the flat that morning he’d managed to convince himself that it would let up shortly, but it was quickly becoming glaringly apparent that he’d been mistaken.

Wrinkling his nose, he procures his mobile from his pocket and pulls up the weather app.

Of course: tomorrow’s forecast was brisk and sunny. A perfect day to enjoy the sights and delights of London at Christmastime.

In _that_ case, he muses… Why not just call it a day? He’d left the flat that morning with Sherlock still snuggled (rather _smugly,_ it seemed to John’s jealous subconscious) in bed, sleeping off the rigors of his stressful work week. Instead of mucking about in the icy December rain, they could have a pleasant afternoon in, drinking tea, reading… perhaps warming up the bed yet again...

Nothing for it, then. Bundling his mother’s tea sampler under his coat to avoid it becoming soaked, he ducks out the doorway and bolts towards the nearest Tube stop.

He arrives back at Baker Street slightly worse for the wear. His shoes and socks are soaked clear through, and he was beginning to lose feeling in his toes. He wonders absently if Sherlock had already started a fire in the fireplace; the mere thought of it makes him shiver in anticipation as he plods up the stairs and through the door to their flat.

“Sherlock? You up? I’m--”

The words catch in his throat as he comes face to face with a very flushed, _very_ disheveled looking Sherlock, who was currently sitting on the sofa frantically pulling his dressing gown shut with one hand whilst fumbling for the television remote with the other. John would have had to have been blind not to be able to deduce what he’d just walked in on.

But before he can comment, curiosity gets the better of him; his eyes pivot to the telly across the room. He can’t help but snort with suppressed laughter when his startled brain finally processes what was playing on the screen.

“I’m sorry, were you just wanking to _‘The Holiday’?”_

“Why are you home so early?” Sherlock sounds decidedly miffed.

“I was freezing my bollocks off out there and thought I might be able to convince you to help me warm them up, as it were. But I see you’ve already got a charming romantic comedy to get your rocks off to.”

Sherlock glares up at him. “Why, you’d prefer I were watching some nice, filthy porn instead?”

John shrugs and divests himself of his wet jacket and toes off his shoes and socks, relieved to see that Sherlock had indeed already built a fire. “Whatever floats your boat, love; far be it from me to judge.” He makes his way across the sitting room and sinks into Sherlock’s chair, stretching his icy-cold toes towards the inviting flames flickering in the fireplace.

Sherlock scowls. “Well, for your information, I wasn’t wanking to _‘The Holiday.’_ I was wanking to Jude Law _in ‘The Holiday,’_ which I think you’ll agree is a rather different scenario entirely.”

Ah, it was all starting to make more sense now; Sherlock’s celebrity crush on Jude Law was no secret between them; in fact, John had indulged Sherlock’s fantasies Jude on more than one occasion, so the root of his current arousal was little surprise indeed. “Fair point. So what do you do during the Kate Winslet bits?” The plotline of the film was beginning to come back to him despite not having seen it in years, and he was now more _curious_ about whatever ritual he’d walked in on than anything else.

“I close my eyes and think of England like any normal self-respecting homosexual. For God’s sake, John, I didn’t come out here _intending_ to have a wank to _‘The Holiday.’_ I was actually planning on having a very pleasant morning catching up on the fan mail from my latest ash article, but I happened to turn on the telly and there was Jude. I became aroused upon seeing him, so like any hot-blooded man, I decided to treat myself to a wank-- since after all, I was finally _alone_ in the flat for once.”

John nods in pensive affirmation. Moments alone were few and far between these days, and he’d never fault Sherlock for a little self-pleasure… even if the source was a little unconventional.

“Well then, by all means, carry on. Don’t let me stop you.” He rolls his neck and keeps his gaze directed at the fire, delighting in the brief beat of anticipation as he waits to see how Sherlock will react. Behind him, he can hear Sherlock breathing, shallow and quick; he’s clearly still aroused. John licks his lips and mentally crosses his fingers that he’s in the mood to play along.

There’s a pause, then the sound of silk against the leather sofa as Sherlock sinks back into it. And then the unmistakable sound of skin on skin. 

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s low baritone cuts through the silence, followed by a breathy sigh. John doesn’t turn around, but he lets his eyes flick over to the screen. On it, Jude is currently on a date with the pretty blonde (what _was_ her name again?) at some posh restaurant in a stately home. He’s all charm and charisma coupled with blundering self-deprecation, which feels like it _should_ come off as fake considering his ravishing good looks, but somehow he manages to pull it off. Though John considers himself fairly straight with the exception of Sherlock, he can _objectively_ understand what Sherlock sees in the man; he is, by all accounts, drop-dead gorgeous.

“Feeling good over there?” John finally turns his head to take in the pornographic tableau playing out on the sofa, and his breath catches in his throat at the pure _perfection_ of the scene.

Sherlock is splayed out the length of the sofa, one leg propped up on the back of it and the other bent and splayed to the side. His dressing gown is wide open and falling in a graceful silken cascade around his chiseled form, and he’s working over his cock in slow, luxurious _pulls_ so sensual John can all but feel them in his own groin. He’s aroused but not yet close to completion; John can tell even from this distance that he hasn’t begun leaking. He’s simply enjoying himself, taking his time, eyes locked on Jude’s immaculate bone structure and no doubt imagining all the glorious things Jude could do to him.

The thought is endlessly arousing.

John bites his lip and unzips his fly, pulling out his own cock and giving it a few tentative strokes. He watches Sherlock watch Jude, a heady kind of voyeurism that makes his blood run hot and restores circulation all the way down to his frigid toes.

“Want to tell me what you’re thinking about?” It’s an honest question, and John expects an honest answer; if Sherlock’s just in the mood to put on a little show, he has no qualms about letting John know he just wants to let him watch. But if he’s in the mood to let John participate, well… it’s one of the few times Sherlock’s tendency to overshare can be a _real_ asset.

“Before you got here I was thinking about fucking him on a rug in front of a fire in a cozy cottage. He was underneath me, missionary style, and he was begging me to go faster but I was refusing and telling him he had to wait, teasing him.”

“Hmm.” John knows Jude is one of the few men Sherlock ever fantasizes about topping ,so he’s not particularly surprised by this admission. He runs the tip of his thumb over the head of his own cock, the sensation causing his member to pulse eagerly in his hand as he imagines how gorgeous Sherlock would look fucking Jude; the way the muscles of his back would ripple, his glutes and thighs flexing in rhythm, the way his arms would tremble with exertion as he fought to hold back.

“But now that you’re here, I’m thinking about the two of you taking turns sucking me off.”

“Mmm. Are we still on the rug in the cozy cottage?”

“Mmmhmm. I’m on my back and you’re both working my cock with my hands in your hair.” Sherlock twists his wrist and gives the tip a light flick before resuming the movement. His eyes flutter shut. 

“Every once and a while you pause to kiss each other before getting back to work.” Suddenly his eyes fly open and he gives John a slightly panicked look, hand frozen mid-stroke. “Sorry, is that-- is that too much?”

John knows what he’s asking; is he freaking John out by describing him with another man? John understands Sherlock’s hesitation. For years, John’s trepidation about his own sexuality had been a stumbling block in many facets of their lives, but recently, John has come to embrace his own sliding scale of identity and as a result, admissions like this from Sherlock freak him out far less than they used to.

He keeps his tone low and measured. “No, love, that’s fine, it’s all fine. He and I just want to make you feel good. Whatever it takes to make you feel good.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Good. Good.” The tension drains from Sherlock’s body and he relaxes back into the cushions, his hand resuming his ministrations on his own prick. “So you’re sucking me off, and kissing, and-- and arguing about who’s going to fuck me first.”

John smirks a bit at that. “And who do _you_ want to fuck you first?”

Sherlock’s hips cant up a bit at the thought, and his legs spread wider. “Jude says he should, because he’s the guest.”

“Well, I suppose I ought to remember my manners. Only seems right that I should let our guest feel how tight you are on your first fucking of the night, before you get all full and messy.”

_“Jesus,_ John--” Sherlock’s spine curls and his abs tremble as he arches a bit. His free hand comes up to pluck his own nipples, which are peaked and flushed in the cool air of the room. The hand on his cock begins to move faster. For a moment, his eyes flicker back to the screen where, fortunately, Jude and the blonde (Candice? Kendall?) and now having a frolic in the snow-covered gardens.

“So. Have he and I decided how we’re going to fuck you? Is he going to have you while I watch, or do you want me there to hold you while he takes you?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap over to where John is seated, suddenly startlingly lucid. “John. Come here. Please.”

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He rises to his feet and makes his way over to the sofa, awaiting further instruction from Sherlock, who’s staring up at him with blazing intensity, one hand still working his leaking prick while the other twists his left nipple.

“I’m going to sit on his prick, and you’re going to suck me off so he can feel how tight I get when you let me come in your mouth.”

“Fuck, _yes…”_ John clambers onto the sofa between Sherlock’s spread legs and runs his eager hands up the insides of Sherlock’s trembling thighs. The scene is becoming so clear to him now; Sherlock reclined languidly in Jude’s arms, back pressed against Jude’s muscular chest with Jude’s arms wrapped firmly around him, Jude’s cock breaching his tight hole while John positions his mouth between Sherlock’s obscenely spread legs. God, Sherlock would let them _destroy him…_

John presses a chaste kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s cock, tasting the salty bead of precome pearled there. He laps gently, wetting the glans, barely sealing his lips around Sherlock’s frenulum as he brings his hand up to press Sherlock’s away, taking over stroking his member in smooth, rhythmic movements. Sherlock moans and rolls his hips and John has to suppress a grin so as not to break the suction he’s formed around the head. He continues to flick his tongue into Sherlock’s slit in brisk,measured movements, and he feels Sherlock’s cock thicken and pulse in his palm in response.

Without warning, John opens his throat and sinks his mouth down as far as he can, taking Sherlock’s full cock deep down in a single savage slide. His gag reflex won’t allow him to stay there long, but he manages a few firm swallows before pulling back-- more than enough to elicit a startled yelp from the man above him.

John sits back up, breaking the seal of his lips with a _pop_ and resumes stroking Sherlock’s shaft with his left hand, the movement now facilitated by his own saliva. He brings his right hand up to fondle Sherlock’s sac with light, gentle squeezes.

Sherlock’s hands have flown up beside his head and are clenching the Union Jack pillow upon which he’s reclined with fervent intensity. His eyes are shut, and he’s panting obscenely.

“How does this feel, love? Does Jude like it? Is he fucking you through it?”

Sherlock swallows hard, sweat pooling in the divot of his throat. He doesn’t open his eyes. “No, he’s not moving, he’s just holding himself there inside me, _feeling_ what you do to me. Oh God, John, _God_ he feels so big when you make me clench--”

John lowers his head and wraps Sherlock’s cock in his mouth once more and begins to fellate him in long, luxurious pulls. He gives Sherlock’s balls a light tug, and Sherlock wails.

“He wants-- oh God, John, he wants-- can we put our hands in your hair?”

John moans a rumbling, affirmative _mmmhmm_ around Sherlock’s cock, and he feels Sherlock’s fingers tangle firmly into his hair and begin to set the pace, pushing his mouth further down his shaft, forcing John to take him deeper with each stroke.

Perhaps he should be freaked out by the thought of being touched even by an _imaginary_ non-Sherlock _man_ like this, but for some reason, today it feels… well, just fine. Not necessarily erotic within itself, but not _wrong_ either; it’s all just a part of Sherlock’s pleasure. Part of making _Sherlock_ feel good.

“Oh! Oh, John, fuck, _fuck!”_

John grins around his cock and pauses at the tip to suck, _hard,_ and adds a light glide of teeth, overstimulating him _just_ the way Sherlock likes.

It certainly produces results. Sherlock’s fingers pull his hair so hard it nearly hurts, and he thrashes so violently John nearly chokes in his efforts.

“John, John, I need to move, I need to _move, oh God, God please, let me fuck your face, please, let me, let me--” / ___

__He’s close; John can see the muscles of his abdomen tightening and clenching, can see the way his thighs are trembling, can feel how hot and hard Sherlock’s cock is in his mouth._ _

__Now or never, he reasons._ _

__With that, he takes his left pointer and ring fingers and locates Sherlock’s furled opening, then pushes inside in one brutal, dry stroke, hitting his prostate directly on the first try._ _

__Sherlock _screams._ His hands grip John’s hair like reins and all John can do is simply focus on relaxing his jaw, covering his teeth, opening his throat, and breathing through is nose as Sherlock begins to voraciously fuck up into his mouth._ _

__Sherlock pistons frantically back and forth between John’s finger and his throat, moaning and wailing and writhing like a beast in heat. John closes his watering eyes and imagines his fingers are a cock, hard and unforgiving, fucking up into Sherlock’s tight heat as he rides himself to the ultimate pleasure._ _

__Not a moment too soon, Sherlock grinds down brutally onto John’s fingers and then thrusts heroically up into his mouth and spills with an unearthly cry, his passage clamping down so hard around John’s digits he can barely move them to milk Sherlock’s prostate as he expells his release._ _

__At last he goes boneless with a whimpering wail, hole dilating and cock hot and spent as he pulls it from John’s swollen lips._ _

__John doesn’t waste any time. He withdraws his fingers, sits back on his heels and grabs the back of Sherlock’s left thigh with his right hand, pulling him further open to expose his wilting prick and puffy hole. With a moan of arousal he takes his own cock in hand and begins to stroke, falling forward to kiss and lave at the side of Sherlock’s neck._ _

__Sherlock smells like sweat and sex and musk and rosin and something so deliciously, uniquely _Sherlock_ that John would know that scent anywhere. He licks at the crook of Sherlock’s neck, _tasting_ him, feeling his racing pulse against his tongue. Beneath him, Sherlock moans again, fucked-out and blissful, and John sinks his teeth into the tender flesh and renders a love bite just above his collar bone._ _

__John’s hand tightens around his own prick. He feels fit to explode, head swirling with images of Sherlock, so weak and used, so pretty and filthy and perfect. His skin is moist and hot beneath John’s body, petal pink and sex-flushed and gorgeous. John always used to think Sherlock’s porcelain skin looked _cold._ But when he has him like this, he’s fire-hot and _radiant,_ alight with passion and the desires of his Transport._ _

__Sherlock moans and squirms beneath him, and that does it; John releases his teeth from his neck and sits back, pulls Sherlock’s leg further out to the side to open him even more, and comes all over Sherlock’s softening cock. He manages to grip Sherlock behind the knee and tip his pelvis up just in time to aim the last few pulses of his release at his hole, and Sherlock moans wantonly as he feels the extent of John’s debauchment._ _

__John somehow remains upright for a singular, stunned moment before collapsing forward to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth opens and his tongue tangles desperately against John’s own, and they kiss and kiss for what feels like an eternity, sealing their coupling with a tender exchange._ _

__At long last, John pulls back, despite Sherlock’s whimper of protest. He props himself up on one arm, then reaches between him to swipe some of his come off Sherlock’s messy torso, and holds his finger up to Sherlock’s mouth._ _

__“Open up, love.”_ _

__Sherlock does so willingly, eyes bright and pupils dilated, and licks John’s release from his finger. John smiles down dotingly at him, then repeats the process a few times before leaning down for another kiss, plundering Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue to taste himself there._ _

__“Mmm,” Sherlock moans as John pulls back once more. “I can taste myself on you.”_ _

__John grins. “So can I. Now hold still, one more thing.” He sits back on his heels again and reaches down between Sherlock’s cheeks. Gently, he scoops up an errant streak of come and pushes it softly into Sherlock’s fluttering hole._ _

__Sherlock groans at the intimacy of the overstimulation, throwing his forearm across his face._ _

__“You alright, Sherlock? Does this hurt?”_ _

__Sherlock shakes his head. “No, doesn’t hurt, just sensitive. Keep going.”_ _

__“Okay. I want to slick you up before I check you for tearing. I went in dry, so we need to be careful.”_ _

__Sherlock chuckles before biting off into a gasp as John carefully penetrates him with his finger once more. “Sure, John. Anything for safety, of course.”_ _

__John smirks as he scoops one last fingerful into Sherlock’s passage, then breaches him deeply one last time. He maneuvers his digit in and out to check for any signs of damage, but to his relief, there are none._ _

__Satisfied, he withdraws before pressing a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s kneecap and extricating himself from their tangled heap to pad down the hallway and procure some wet flannels for them to clean themselves up._ _

__They make quick work of it, and Sherlock wraps his dressing gown back around himself as John refastens his trousers and tosses another log on the fire before fetching the tartan afghan to tuck snugly over them both. And Sherlock leans heavily into John’s arms as they watch the remainder of the film which, to John’s surprise, turns out to be the story of a found family-- a widower with two lovely daughters who one day finds the courage to love the person who finally completes them._ _

__Outside on Baker Street, the rain turns into snow._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Leave tidings of comfort and joy!


End file.
